


Mistake

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: ... It's a Thing, ... That's Another Thing Altogether, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Breakup Sex, Drinking, F/M, Friends to Fuckbuddies, Jon Snow's Magic Tongue, Past Dicksa/Jonerys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “Your brother would kill me.”Smirks at that. “But would you regret it, Jon?”“No.” Voice low as that hum now, smirk to match her own. “You know I wouldn’t regret it, Sans.”Lifts up onto her shins. “Good.” Knees pressing into the sofa as she inches up her silky shirt — bit by bit. “Because I really need to come, Jon.” Tilts her head to the side; shirt runched up beneath her breasts. “Really,reallyneed to.”Commiseratory wine turns a little spicy as Jon and Sansa comfort each other after their respective breakups. Pure smut. Lots of feels. Wine. Coffee. Sweetness. What more could you want?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 56
Kudos: 202





	Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> > mother of GOD was it just me that didn’t realise sexy smutty gifs were a thing?? probably? okay! here’s one that fits this fic’s mood extremely well anyway… 😝
> 
>   
> 

*

**8:38pm**

**Sansa** : can I come over?

**Jon** : if you have to.

**Sansa** : dickhead. got wine.

**Jon** : why didn’t you say?? come on up, princess!

**Sansa** : wanker. be there in 10 x

*

**9:04pm**

“That wasn’t _quite_ ten minutes.”

Flash of blue eyes as she tosses a look at him over her shoulder. “Who’s counting?”

“Me.” Kicks the door shut; follows her into the kitchen. “Where’s the wine?”

Hefts a bottle, taps her nails against it. “Glasses?”

“On the side.”

“Red okay?” Opens the bottle even as she asks it. Closes her eyes at the satisfying _glug-glug-glug_ as she pours. “Fuck, that sounds good.” Smiles in his general direction, eyes rolling back into her head as she inhales deeply. “Doesn’t that sound so _good_ , Jon?”

Snatches his stare away from the long line of her throat, the hollow at the base of it just begging for a bite. “Mm. Sounds good, Sans.”

*

**9:22pm**

Fuck, he looks good tonight. Really good.

Like a king in the immaculate, exquisite expanse of his apartment. He works hard at being tasteful. Always has. Dresses well. Looks after his hair — sink in the bathroom is a wash of beard-oils and expensive aftershaves. Dark walls everywhere. Soft furnishings: charcoal, matte-white, burst of yellow every now and then. Houseplants the envy of the city — he talks to them, she’s heard him.

Mm, anything’d grow lush if it had _that_ voice soothing it all hours of the day. All hours of the ni— _stop_. _Stop it right now, Sansa Stark_.

But she’s a little mixed-up tonight. It’s hard to stop. Giddy. That’s how she feels. Giddy and glowing and with a little iron hand of panic tightening every now and then round her throat. She’s free. She’s fucking _free_ — and it’s as terrifying as it is electrifying.

“Top-up?”

Holds her glass out to him. “Please.”

“Cheers, Sans.”

Glasses clink together.

_Fuck me_ , she wants to say. _Fuck me, fuck me please_.

“Cheers, Jon.”

*

**9:34pm**

Wonders when she’ll tell him what it is she’s obviously aching to blurt out. Can see it in the flickers of her face. Tightening of her jaw. Long curve of her throat — still begging for a bite — stretching taut as she tilts her head to one side. Reads it in every bit of her. Knows her like the back of his hand — also knows he’s no choice but to wait. There is no rushing Sansa Stark. Ever.

Pours more wine. Peddles more chat. Whole time she’s inching sideways on the sofa. Then back into the cushions. Forward to the edge. Toes flexing on the rug underfoot, then tucking up as she crosses her legs. Leans her elbows on her thighs, bows toward him. Tilts her glass to her lips.

“I left him.”

Looking at him over the rim of her glass. Pulls it away. He tries not to focus too much on her mouth, the way it’s stained the same ruby shade as the wine.

“I left him,” she says again. “Last night.”

“Why?”

Comes out soft: his voice. Practised. Patient. Like a panther stalking the edges of its enclosure, drawing away before its breath can mist up the windows looking right in. Runs a fingertip round his wine-glass. Watches her with an absently caring air.

“Wasn’t working. We tried but — ” Eyebrows see-sawing up as she looks to the ceiling; wine spiralling in the glass she’s gesturing with. “Sometimes things just don’t work out. You know?” Keeps looking at the ceiling. Drinks — deeply. “No matter how hard you try at fixing them.”

Taps his thumb against the stem of his glass. “Nice guy.”

“He was.” Whoosh of breath between her teeth. “He _is_.”

Waits. Considers. Decides — “ _Too_ nice?”

Rewarded by a little leaf-rustle of laughter. Her shoulders shaking with it. Eyes flicking back from the ceiling, settling on his own.

“Maybe a little.”

*

**9:46pm**

Feels — a _little_ — bad for laughing. Bites her lip to shut herself up. Shoots him a withering look from beneath her brows. He graces her — fucking _gifts_ her — one of those guileless smiles of his: pearl-cut teeth, lips that belong on an angel or a cupid or whatever those little chubby figures are on church ceilings. All bowed up beautifully beneath the shadow of his soot-dark beard — the rasp of which she wants to feel _everywhere_. Now. Please.

“You told the others?”

Robb, he means. Arya. Parents. Theon. Margie. Shakes her head, slips a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“Not yet.”

Quirks a look at her. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay.”

“Sans…”

His soft voice. The one that’s always been able to melt her. Convince her. Trick her into giving him her last Skittle when they were kids. Comfort her. Coax her into telling him Joffrey’s address all that time ago. That soft, velvet voice that reassured her _after_ — when he came back from Casterly Lane with red knuckles, look of blood in his eyes…

So of course _that_ voice coaxes everything from her now. Always has been able to. Always will be able to. Some things never change.

“Broken up. Literally… just a bit.” Cups a hand round her nape, ducks a look up at him. “Feel sick every now and then. Like it was a mistake.” Nips at her lip; he stares at her very steadily. “Like I won’t know exactly what I’ve called time on till it’s too late.”

Little shake of his head. “If it wasn’t right, it wasn’t right.”

“I know that,” she says softly. “I _do_ … it’s just — ” Flails a gesture, spills wine, puts her hand to her mouth to suck up the drops of it. Doesn’t miss the way his eyes darken. Just a touch. “He gave me everything. You know? Everything.” Lets her hand fall back to the sofa. “I feel almost… _ungrateful_ now. Like I’ve thrown it all back in his face.”

Another shake of his head: swift, sure. “You haven’t thrown anything at anyone, Sansa.” Little northern burr tangling on the syllables of her name. “Don’t tell yourself that. Don’t beat yourself up with it. Won’t ever stop if you start.” Lifts a brow. “Trust me.”

“How is it with…?”

“She texts me every other day asking if I’ll take her back.” Laughs: a soft, smoky sound. “Tells me she’s sorry. That it’ll never happen again.” Rolls his eyes, then looks into his wine. “That I’m her everything.”

Inches toward him on the sofa, just a little. “Maybe you are.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I was.” Looks at her, softness ebbing out to a tiny hint of steel. In his eyes, his voice. “But it’s too late for all that, Sans. She should’ve told herself that before she let another man inside her cu— fuck. Sorry. I — ”

Huff of laughter through her nose. “It’s okay.” Tilts her head to the side. “We’re adults… aren’t we?”

“We are.” Soft as that smoky laugh, just as slow — the smile that warms up his cheeks. “Sort of.” Lifts his glass to her, looks at her in a way that makes her fucking _melt_. “Cheers to that, princess.”

*

**10:32pm**

Quite drunk. Alert, still. Aware — but looser. Like he’s liquid as the wine Sansa keeps pouring into his glass. Not drunk enough that he isn’t aware of feeling these things. Just drunk enough that suddenly using the hollow of her throat — that’s _still_ begging for a bite — as a wine-cup makes perfect sexy sense.

“Who’d she fuck anyway?”

_That_ drags him back to the present. Drags his eyes away from his would-be wine-cup back up to her own. Blown a little wider now: so very _blue_ he thinks of sunlight hitting the surface of the sea, ice-floes, water drip-drip- _dripping_ into his mouth, sparking across his tongue. Sucks it all up. Swallows it all down.

“Who _didn’t_ she fuck is the better question.”

Squints at him — _hard_. “You’re being unfair.”

He knows she’s always hated the guts of every single one of his girlfriends ever; but girl-code is a strong tenet of the makeup of Sansa Stark — and she will never hesitate to remind him of that. Ever. So he shrugs, bows his head apologetically.

“I am,” he says. “Probably.” Ducks the cushion she lobs at his head. “I never asked after numbers, Sans.” Catches the corner of it, chucks it back at her. “One man. Twelve. Doesn’t make a fucking difference.”

Nodding wisely into her wine. “For the best,” she’s saying, nodding, frowning, nodding. “That you don’t know.” Folds the cushion into her lap. “It’s for the best.”

“If you say so, Sans.”

Runs her tongue over a drop of wine on her bottom lip. “I do.”

Bit of heat in his blood. Might be that panther’s scratching at the glass of its enclosure now. Growling to get out.

*

**10:34pm**

_Fuck me_ , her brain is screaming at her now. _Fuck me, fuck me please_.

He looks like — like a fucking _jaguar_ or something. All dark hair. Dark eyes. Muscles straining against his black tee shirt. Hulked forward, gazing up at her from beneath his lashes as he takes another sip of wine. Settles back into his seat. Thighs spreading just a little and — _fuck me_ — does she want to be on her knees between them.

“Mr Tarly, then — what did he do wrong?”

_Tarly? Tarly who?_

“Nothing.” Croaks it. Makes a little spluttery cough, rasps a palm across her chest. Notices how his eyes follow its tread. “Ever. He was perfect.”

Quirks a brow. “In every way?”

“In _every_ way.”

Lets it linger there: the knowledge that another man made her come. Lots. With his tongue. His fingers. His cock. Bit too sensitive for her — the way he handled her. Too soft, too sweet. Never ever left a mark. Still, she sighed his name a fair few times. Rode him to high heaven till every sound he made had only one shape: _Sansa, Sansa, Sansaaaaaa_ —

“Sounds irritating.”

Rasp of his voice wrenches her out of her reveries. Finds herself clutching her wine-glass to her chest, nodding at him, open-mouthed.

“It _was_ irritating!” she says, a tad huskily. “He was so perfect. Nobody seems to understand how that made me feel.” Gestures wildly. “Made me feel so raw all the time — _urgh_ , not in that way, _Jon_. God!”

Holds his hands up, smirking. “Sort of adults, remember?”

“Raw as in unfinished.” Enunciates the words very clearly, then grimaces. “Oh _God_ … that’s not much better, is it?”

“Not really.” He’s laughing that soft, smoky laugh. “But I know what you mean. Work-in-progress whilst he was _very_ much the finished article.”

“Exactly!” shrills it. “Every bit of his life smoothed out.” Puts some smoke back into her own voice. “Not a single sharp edge.”

Lets a sigh whistle past his teeth. Then tilts his head at her. Jaguar. Definitely a fucking jaguar. All ripple-shod muscle and dangerous eyes.

“Man needs a bit of an edge to him,” he says casually. “Else what is he?”

_Fuck you_ , she thinks. _Fuck you, Jon I’m-So-Sexy Snow_ — _and then fuck me. Please_.

*

**11:02pm**

Took her sweater off a little while ago. Top she’s wearing underneath is one of his favourites. He shouldn’t have favourites. He knows this. But that top. That fucking top… it’s hard not to adore it. Way it clings to her. Every curve. Every dip. Leaves a little sliver of belly bare: skin still sun-browned from the summer. Wants to put his mouth to it. Run his tongue from hipbone to hipbone. Dip down, down — _down_.

“Can I tell you something?”

Blinks at her innocently. “Fire away.”

“When Robb told me about you and Dany.” Makes a gesture: wine-glass up by her cheek. “I thought it’d be the other way round.”

Scoffs at her. “You think _I’d_ cheat?”

“No! Shit, Jon — _no_.” Smacks the glass to her forehead, groans at herself. Tries to ignore the flicker of fire singeing down his spine at the sound of it. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What, then?”

“You just — ” Bites her lip, flicks an glance at him. Touch uncertain; can see it at the edges of her eyes. “I’ve just always thought there’s this air to you. Just hovers round you.”

Raises a brow. “An air?”

“Mm-hm.”

Flicker of fire most definitely singeing along his cock now as he imagines that little hum she’s making wrapped up around it. He swallows. Thickly. “What sort of… _air_?”

“Hungry.” Practically growls it — then seems to catch a hold of herself, soften up her voice. “It’s like you’re hungry all the time. Will do anything to sate it. Makes you look a little angry.” Frowns like she’s considering something. “A little — no.” Frown deepens as she shakes her head. Decides. “No.”

But he’s rocked onto the balls of his feet now. “A little what, Sansa?”

She mirrors him. Thighs straining against her tight jeans as she lifts up on her heels a little, tucks her feet further under herself. Rocks back down onto the sofa. He watches every movement — then meets her eyes. Flares his own at her. She bites her lip.

“Sexy,” she breathes at last. “So fucking _sexy_ , Jon.”

*

**11:10pm**

“Sansa… it would be a mistake.”

Can feel her nipples straining against her shirt. Heat of his eyes on them — can feel that, too. “Would it?”

“Both of us just out of serious relationships. Half-broken. Healing.” Hums low in his throat. Just about manages to tear his eyes away from her tits. “Wine — _lots_ of wine.” Wicks his tongue across his lip; she nearly fucking _moans_. “You might regret it in the morning.”

Ears prick up at that. “Would _you_ regret it?”

“Your brother would kill me.”

Smirks at that. “But would you regret it, Jon?”

“No.” Voice low as that hum now, smirk to match her own. “You know I wouldn’t regret it, Sans.”

Lifts up onto her shins. “Good.” Knees pressing into the sofa as she inches up her silky shirt — bit by bit. “Because I really need to come, Jon.” Tilts her head to the side; shirt runched up beneath her breasts. “Really, _really_ need to.”

*

**11:12pm**

“Don’t tease me.”

Practically growls it. Can feel his body coiling up: joints flexing, muscles tightening — every bit of him ready to leap, spring, catch, _kill_. Wants her throat. Blood-beat beneath her ear. Mouth on it. Teeth. Tongue. Marks of his making on her body. Supple stretch of her curves pinned up by his strength. She reads it in his eyes. Flash in her own tells him she wants all that, too.

“I like teasing,” she whispers softly. “What you going to do about it?”

Puts his wine down. Somewhere. _Anywhere_. “Gentleman never tells.”

“That what you are, hmm?” Catches her lip with her teeth; pulls her shirt up just a little bit more. His mouth waters. “A _gentle_ man?”

Narrows his eyes at her. “Not especially.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I don’t want love right now, Jon.” Underside of her left breast appearing beneath the silk. Right now, too — slowly. “I want to be fucked.” Little thread of a moan as the shirt grazes up over her nipples. “ _Hard_.”

Rolls his tongue, then nips at his lip. “That right?”

“Mm-hm.” Whisks the shirt off over her head in one smooth swoop. “That’s right.”

“Fucked,” he says slowly. “Hard.”

Keeps her eyes hooked on his own as she lays back on the sofa. Spreads her thighs. Runs her fingertips along the seams of her jeans. Taps a thumb against the button idly.

“Can you do that?” she asks softly. “Can you do that for me, Jon?”

Slinks toward her. All low shoulders. Hands dipping down the cushions either side of her hips. Doesn’t lower his body onto hers. Not yet. Lets her writhe a little. Thighs bow wider. Little hitch of breath in her throat as he moves up between them. Leans low enough to put his mouth to her jaw. Very lightly. Grazes his teeth gently along its edge; swoops up to growl into her ear.

“What do _you_ think, princess?”

*

**11:24pm**

Tries to feel — a _little_ — bad. She really _tries_. But she can’t quite manage it. Doesn’t think it’s possible to feel even a little bit bad when _that_ mouth is doing what it’s doing between her thighs.

Guilt out the window. Mistake and the dance toward making it a distant thought: handful of sand flung into a desert wind. Melting away. Just like she’s melting. Further and further into him. His tongue. Lips. Sloppy little sucks that leave her softly keening. Fingers on her thighs. Pinning them outward: just hard enough to hurt a tiny bit, leave a few marks on her skin. Mm, exactly how she likes it.

Working her — working her so _well_ that in a few minutes she’s already seeing stars. Spotlights. Eyes scrunched tight-shut, fists curled up by her face as she arches her back and drums a heel against his side.

“Don’t stop!” mewling it. “Don’t stop! _Jon_ , don’t fucking stop.”

Cresting it. Red-gold hazy wave rippling between her hipbones. Molten pit echoing outward, upward; liquid fire in her veins. Feels the flush start in her cheeks, sweep down over her chest. Building, building — _building_. Then he pulls away.

“ _Jon_ – ”

Protest cut short as he slots a grip on her hips. Hauls her onto her front. Whines at him. Throws a curse or two — squeals as he lands a sharp smack on her arse. Another. Surges forward. Then finds herself backing up. Seeking his palm — seeking _more_.

“Bad girl… manners don’t cost a penny.” Squeezes a handful, then pulls his palm back to slam another smack. She moans. “You’ll say please next time.”

Grapples up to her knees, arches her back. “Will you let me come if I say please?”

“Maybe.”

He laughs as she growls another impatient curse at that.

“Thought you said you liked teasing.” Swoops his palm between her legs; grip he keeps there feels so — so fucking _possessive_. Her knees almost give out. “Can give it but not take it… that right, Sans?”

Bucks into his hand. “I — fuck _Jon_ — I can take it.”

“Good.” Drags his fingertips down, teases the very edges of her. She bites down on her forearm as he slips a finger inside her. Another. “Fuck, that sounds good.” Scissors them lightly; gives a rumbly groan as she flutters round him. “Doesn’t that sound so _good_ , Sansa?”

Shimmies her hips: imploring him to crook, move, thrust. “ _Jon_ …”

“Don’t worry, princess.” His body flush against her back suddenly. Feels every bit of him: every hard line of muscle, smooth stretch of skin. “I won’t leave you feeling unfinished.” Low, smoky laugh at his own wit even as she groans. “Can’t promise about raw, though.”

“Urgh! Dickhead,” she huffs into her forearm — then moans low and sweet as his fingers start to move: steady little drumbeat rhythm echoing the blood pounding in her head. “ _Jon_ — do it. Let me — oh _fuck_ — let me come!”

Circling her clit now. “What’s the magic word, princess?”

_Fuck you_ , she thinks. _Fuck you, Jon I’m-So_ — _please! Please!_

*

**01:12am**

Somewhere along the way of whatever _this_ is, Sansa seems to have turned the tables on him. Completely. Utterly. Absolutely turned the fucking tables. Stacked them up, too. Set them on fire. Watched them smoulder down to ashes.

Idly wondering this from his position amongst the pillows of his bed, wrists pinned to the headboard by her fingers, her hips rocking up a storm, his cock hers — everything hers. Hers to command, hers to come on, hers to never ever leave. Please.

Bites on her throat. Red marks from his beard on her breasts. Nipples still showing wet from his mouth. Licks his lips. Surges forward to catch one up with his tongue again. She lets him. Twines her fingers in his hair, yanks his head where she wants it.

“Sansa,” he growls, groans — _whines_. “Sansa.”

Another revelation. Not quite lost the power of speech. But words? What the fuck are any words apart from the one hanging on his lips right now?

“ _Sansa_.”

Other nipple now. Sucks a mark just to the left of it, then presses a kiss between her breasts, trails his lips back up to her throat. Falls back into the pillows as she presses a palm to his chest. Looks down to where she’s taking him — taking him so _well_ that all he can do is groan and grumble at her. Gaze back up into her eyes. Those blue, blue eyes.

Robb might kill him. Robb will _definitely_ kill him. Daenerys is probably blowing up his phone right now. Dickon is most likely crying into his couch on the other side of the city. But Jon doesn’t feel guilty. _Can’t_ feel guilty. Won’t regret it, this, him, her — _them_ sunk up tight together. How could he? Regret would mean this is a mistake. Mm — and this is most definitely _not_ a fucking mistake.

She’s smiling down at him: some goddess in a cloud of candlelight. “Still with me, baby?”

“Sansa,” he manages to groan out. “ _Sansa_.”

*

**8:32am**

Parted like friends this morning. Sunlight pouring in through the big windows of his apartment. Him talking to his houseplants. Her shouting — _why do you never have any fucking coffee, Jon?!_ — as she clattered round his kitchen, half-dressed, hunting for her shoes. Friends. Just friends. Never mind the arse-squeeze he gifted her on their way out of the apartment. Mm, the bitten lip she landed on him as they caught the elevator down.

Doesn’t feel like a mistake. His grip on her arse in the doorway. That snare of her teeth on his bottom lip in the lift. Last night. All night. This morning. Early. None of it feels like a mistake. Feels right. Feels so fucking _right_.

Kept his promise, too. Lost her voice from moaning. Ache between her thighs: some raw, sore tender-spot deep between her hipbones. Even that feels good. Smiles to herself as she adjusts the scarf round her neck. Silky, pretty — perfect weight to keep the marks on her throat from glowing in the sunshine.

Lets herself into her apartment. Sits at her desk. Gazes out over the city: the skyscrapers, the sun, the strains of wispy cloud. Thinks of that soft, smoky laugh brushing its heat against her skin. That tongue. Those hands. Sits on her light as the silk scarf round her neck: the memories of last night, the weight of him, the _ache_ for him. Doesn’t feel like a mistake — him, her, _them_ tangled up together. Mm, none of it.

Feels like something old, something new — all at once. Feels _right_.

Phone buzzes on the desk. Picks it up, already smiling.

*

**8:38am**

**Jon** : can I come over?

**Sansa** : if you have to.

**Jon** : bad girl. got coffee.

**Sansa** : why didn’t you say?? come on up, baby!

**Jon** : your wish is my command, princess. be there in 2 x

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t know if anyone is here. Think we’re all (rightly) a little distracted at the moment. I certainly am. My wips have ground to a temporary halt… but this just sprung up at me and seized me by the throat tonight so I thought I may as well write it down! Hope you’re all okay as you can be. Take care — and be kind to yourselves. Everyone deserves a bit of kindness, especially in times like these. ❤️  
>  **p.s.** hope the time-thingies weren’t _too_ annoying… I was just toying with a new format! It was quite fun to write! Also sorry if that gif is too much! The fact that I didn't know they existed makes me feel very old! Hence my excited inclusion of it! Okay, enough exclamation marks. Save for this last one. Bye, honeys! 🍯


End file.
